


Compulsory Figures

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, figure skating AU, i blame the olympics, what is even happening right now?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-03-21 03:05:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13731807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: SUMMARY: A series of moments in Felicity Smoak and Oliver Queen's road to becoming partners on the ice -- and maybe off.  Or: it's that figure skating AU no one asked for, because parlez-vous Olympics??  ;)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Update: Please enjoy the _beautiful_ artwork by **smewhereelse**! Since smewhereelse has gifted us all with an embarrassment of awesomeness, I'm sprinkling them among the chapters, but for the whole effect, please see **[the original post](https://smewhereelse.tumblr.com/post/172082693082/fanart-etc-for-compulsory-figures-by)**. I am so grateful. :)

 

**_Smoak-Palmer Partnership Over?_ **

_ Sources tell  _ Skating Today _ that Felicity Smoak and Ray Palmer have ended their partnership. The pair, who have skated together under coach Quentin Lance for the past two seasons, have not had the kind of success most observers in the sport expected them to, most recently coming in fifth at Nationals and not making it to Worlds. _

Skating Today _ has no information on who Smoak will pair with next. Palmer has been dating ladies skater Anna Loring, and has mentioned to the press a desire to skate with her for years. Stay tuned! _

 

  
  
  
  
“Frak!”   
  
The fifth time Felicity under-rotates her triple axel, she groans and stays down, the cold seeping through her compression leggings. She can do the jump – she can!    
  
Usually. But something is throwing her off today.   
  
“Stupid, slippery ice,” she mutters to herself. It’s silly – something her mother used to say when she was a cute little seven-year-old biting it on waltz jumps.   
  
Oliver Queen, her partner of a mere three weeks – who, of course, has a perfect triple axel and a couple quads in his arsenal, because have you seen him? – skids to a stop beside her. He looks her over carefully. “You okay?”   
  
Stuck somewhere between frustration and embarrassment, she forces a smile. “Fine,” she answers, still trying to be on her best behavior with him. Which means keeping a handle on her unfiltered thoughts. And, you know, landing her jumps.    
  
Also, she is actually fine. She’s been falling on her ass on the ice for a decade -- bruises are par for the course.   
  
Oliver nods, the hint of a smile on his face, and offers his hand. “Let’s run through the footwork.”   
  
She narrows her eyes at him, ignoring the helping hand and pushing herself somewhat awkwardly back to her feet. She’s still trying to figure out what his game is – she’s heard stories about his rather lackluster attentiveness as a partner, but since they started working together, he’s been downright solicitous. In Felicity’s experience, such exaggerated chivalry is almost always about doubting her abilities.   
  
She is, after all, the poor skater from Vegas who made it to junior nationals years ago wearing her mother’s cocktail waitress outfit with a cheap leotard underneath instead of a handmade, crystal-covered  _ figure skating dress _ . She still remembers the pointed euphemisms in the press -- she’d come in fourth as one of the youngest competitors, but instead of her talent, everyone wrote about how well she’d done  _ in spite of _ all the obstacles she’d overcome. She’s used to being underestimated in the very expensive and fairly exclusive sport of figure skating.   
  
Which isn’t to suggest she has any  _ patience _ with that attitude. It may have taken her a few years, but Felicity knows her worth and her talent, and she’s not about to let her new partner treat her like a naif.   
  
“We haven’t gotten the jump right,” she points out. A bit loudly.   
  
Oliver’s eyebrows lift, and he glances briefly over at Quentin, their coach. “Right, but the footwork–”   
  
“Oliver,” she interrupts, hands on her hips, glaring up at him – their height difference is very helpful when he’s hurling her through the air, but it’s super irritating that he’s so much taller when she’s trying to yell at him for being a patronizing jerk. “We’re going to build our programs around the jumps and the lifts,” she points out, unnecessarily, “and we need to get those right.”   
  
“I know,” he begins, “but maybe we can put the triple axel on hold for a bit and focus on something else. What about the throw triple flip?”   
  
“I can do this,” she insists.    
  
She can.   
  
And while Oliver seems a bit uncertain how to react to her stubbornness, Felicity has already skated away. She speeds up, circling closer to Quentin and raising her voice. “We’re gonna go again.”   
  
Quentin gives her an unimpressed look, but doesn’t otherwise protest.    
  
This partnership is his idea, after all. Both Felicity and Oliver are strong, athletic skaters, who occasionally struggle with the more performative aspects of the sport. Felicity’s prior partners have all been graceful skaters, performers more than athletes, but Quentin suggested pairing her with a skater who has similar strengths and weaknesses. They argued for awhile about how that wouldn’t actually help the execution scores, but Quentin is dead set on the idea of focusing on their strengths. She’s not fully persuaded, but she’s agreed to give it a shot.   
  
Felicity hears Oliver coming – his legs are ridiculously strong and he’s already caught up to her. She reaches back, and they clasp hands, syncing their strokes in a rather effortless way. it’s been like this from their first skate – maybe there’s something to Quentin’s idea to pair them up, because even with their vast height difference, Felicity finds it easy to match his movements.    
  
“Ready?” Oliver asks, squeezing her hand to signal he’s about to release her.   
  
She squeezes back and they let go, drifting farther apart and turning towards the corner, shifting to their right skates, speeding backwards for a long two-count. “Go,” she says, and they turn in unison into the jump – left foot, outside edge, whip the right leg around, and up.   
  
Felicity lets her body take over, arms pulling in, ankles crossed, spinning one, two, three. She releases the turning position, left leg coming out and around, right skate down and – nailed it! A half-second after she lands, she hears Oliver’s skate hit, and she straightens, throwing a celebratory fist into the air. “Yes!”   
  
Oliver huffs a laugh beside her, and she grins at him. “Toldja I had it.”   
  
He’s actually smiling, for once, holding his hands up defensively. “I never doubted you for a second.”   
  
She scoffs at him and turns away, accelerating, wanting to go again right away. “Let’s do this!” she shouts, glancing back at him over her shoulder.   
  
To her surprise, Oliver is right behind her, his hand outstretched for hers. “Ready when you are,” he tells her.   
  
Huh. Maybe he won’t be a total patronizing nightmare to work with. Felicity, who has been very wary of this whole idea, feels unexpectedly hopeful, all of a sudden.   
  
“Promise?” she asks, grabbing his hand.   
  
“I promise,” he says, pulling her in closer, guiding her in for a lift. “I won’t let you fall.”   
  
Felicity holds his gaze for a long moment, then gives him a quick nod. “I trust you,” she says, more than a little surprised to realize she means it.   
  
Huh.   


 

_ end chapter _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Olympics Gala Day. ;)
> 
> For those curious about Diggle in this AU 'verse, the kernel for this story came from a random tweet thread where I was casting various Arrowverse characters as Olympic athletes. Barry, clearly, is a speed skater. Diggle is a biathlete, as is Lyla. Curtis is still a decathlete/summer Olympian. Anyway, the result of that is we likely won't see my dearest Diggle in this story, which is quite a departure for me. :( Apologies for those of you, like me, that always want more Diggle (and Diggle x Lyla) content.
> 
> As for updates to this story, no promises, but unlike with my other WIPs, I have a pretty solid understanding of each vignette and where we're going, so. ONE HOPES this story will be shorter and simpler for me to complete. (WHY DO I DO THIS TO MYSELF?)

 

 

**_Smoak-Queen to Debut at the Grand-Prix_ **

_ In apparent confirmation of their new partnership, Oliver Queen posted a workout video to Instagram of him and his new skating partner Felicity Smoak. In the video, Queen and Smoak perform tandem pushups, with Queen on the ground and Smoak balancing with her feet on a balance ball and her hands on his shoulders. The caption reads:  _ " Partnerships are built on trust. And sweat. A lot of sweat."

_ Neither Queen nor Smoak has spoken on the record about their partnership, and coach Quentin Lance deferred all questions until the Grand Prix. _

  
  
  


“I’m not skating to Coldplay.”

Felicity whips around to find Oliver leaning against the doorframe, smirking at her. He’s in basketball shorts and tank top, with towel slung over one shoulder and a water bottle in his left hand. She shouldn’t be quite so stunned by the sight of his arms -- she has, after all, felt the strength of his entire body on the ice. But that tank top is... His biceps are... a lot.

Then she blinks. He won’t skate to-- “What?” 

She and Quentin have been kicking around ideas for their long program for at least twenty minutes -- she can tell by the onset of stiffness in her muscles, since she’d foregone a proper cool down after her treadmill wind sprints in favor of arguing about music -- but  _ no one _ has suggested Coldplay. 

“No Coldplay,” Oliver reiterates, pushing off the doorframe and crossing to the mats where she’s sitting. He drops his towel and water and begins to stretch. “And nothing high concept.”

“High concept?” Felicity echoes, eyebrow quirked in amusement. Conversations with him are a challenge -- he’s bright and cagey and enjoys pushing her buttons. She can’t resist pushing back on almost everything he says, because there’s nothing better for getting to know someone like a good argument.

“I mean that I’m not,” he pauses, shrugging a little as he reaches for an example, “wearing green tights and skating to Robin Hood.” He pins her with a very stern look. “And I’m not wearing ruffles and pretending this is a ballet performance.”

Felicity wrinkles her nose at him. “You have a lot of rules.”

Oliver opens his mouth -- almost certainly to argue with her, because arguing has become the driving force behind their relatively new partnership -- but Quentin interjects.

“No need to pick a song yet,” Quentin says. “Not until we figure out what we’re doing here.”

Puzzled, Felicity shifts from her half-assed hamstring stretch position to sit cross-legged, shifting a bit so she can see both men. “I... thought we were skating,” she answers, with enough sarcasm to earn a sour look from Quentin. 

“You both are strong skaters,” Quentin says, pinning them with his sharp gaze. “I’m banking on your athleticism -- the jumps will get you high technical scores no matter what song you pick. You can push the field by including more combinations, and more complex combinations in your programs. What I want to talk to you about is the rest of it.

Felicity’s gaze shifts to Oliver, and he’s looking right back at her. They share a wordless moment of confusion before she turns back to Quentin. “What do you mean,” she says slowly, “the  _ rest _ of it?”

Quentin sighs, sitting on the lifting bench. “Neither one of you is any good  _ performing _ , and like it or not, we can’t get where we want with side by side triple axels and a throw quad Salchow.”

Felicity startles a bit at that, because what? “You want us to do a throw  _ quad Salchow _ ?” It’s intriguing, if a bit intimidating. Ray had always balked at the idea of throw quads, arguing that if she couldn’t do a quad on her own, it would be too dangerous for him to basically hurl her into one. She’d never quite agreed with Ray’s argument, but she also wouldn’t make him perform an element that he didn’t trust.

It had, of course, occurred to her once or twice that maybe what Ray didn’t trust was  _ her _ . Instinctively, she looks over at Oliver and is surprised to find him watching her with a calm, knowing kind of certainty. He nods. “We could do it.”

And like that, Felicity kind of thinks she maybe agrees with him? 

Quentin waves a dismissive hand. “You’ve seen the tape of the throw triple Salchow you two have been doing -- you get the height and the distance to make it a quad.”

She has seen the tape -- Oliver has insane upper body strength, and generates a ton of power from his legs, so their throws have been  _ big _ . She feels buoyed by the solid certainty from Quentin and Oliver. They’ll have to discuss a throw quad more later, but right now Felicity still has a bone to pick with their coach. “We’re not good at performing?” Her ire ramps back up as she remembers the other thing he said. “That’s not very nice.”

He tilts his head and gives her a look. “When have I ever sugar coated?”

Felicity deflates. “Never,” she says on a sigh. It’s not that Quentin isn’t supportive -- no one’s more in her corner than he is. But he doesn’t let her get away with anything, and makes her think critically about her own strengths and weaknesses as a skater. It’s what she needs, even if it doesn’t feel great all the time. 

“I already know your problem,” Quentin says, pointing at Oliver, “is that you don’t dance.”

Oliver sighs. “That’s the first thing I told you when we talked about me skating with Felicity,” he reminds Quentin, who looks unimpressed.

“I’m not asking you to dance, Oliver, and I need you to stop thinking that’s what you’re supposed to do in between jumps.” 

Felicity presses her lips together to try to hide her amusement, but Oliver quirks an eyebrow at her.

“And you,” Quentin adds, pointing at Felicity, “you get self conscious in between the elements you enjoy, and you stiffen up.”

Felicity wants to argue, but he’s not wrong. She  _ does _ tense up when she’s supposed to be thinking about edges and lines and gracefulness. When she’d started skating as a little girl, her mother enrolled her in ballet classes at the YMCA. And from day one, she felt out of place -- too loud, too hyper, too short,  _ too much _ . She could jump, sure, and her balance on her spins was there from the start.  But the delicate arm movements, the graceful back arch, the lyrical movements? None of that has ever come easy for her, and the more her ballet teacher focused on her, the more corrections and tweaks she received, the more Felicity internalized just how  _ bad _ she is at the exact dance elements that are supposed to be incorporated into her skating.

She knows now that she’s at least  _ passable _ \-- she can get through what she needs to. She’s just understood from the time she was a little girl that she’ll never be  _ good _ at it. And her anxiety has seared that knowledge into her brain, and made sure that her performances are when she has the most doubts. And that doubt begets tension, which begets keen self-consciousness, begets tension, which stiffens her up and makes her look like a toothpick on ice. 

Yeah, that critique has stuck with her.

So years ago, to combat what she calls her toothpick problem, she’d decided to skate with a partner. Skating with someone else helps her to focus on something other than  _ everyone watching _ as she tries (and fails) to skate elegantly. The toothpick problem is definitely  _ better _ when she skates with a partner, but she can still get lost in her own anxieties. 

“Okay,” she says, choosing not to obsess over all the things her skating lacks right now, “so what’s your big idea to cover our flaws?”

“Stop skating for the people in the back row,” Quentin answers immediately.

It’s advice she’s been given for years --  _ It’s a big rink, make your program land for the people in the last row _ . And now Quentin is telling them to ignore it?

Felicity frowns at him. “That’s it? We don’t even get to picture the crowd in their underwear?”

Oliver huffs a little and she glances over, surprised to find him almost smiling. 

Quentin seems less amused. “I don’t want you thinking about the audience at all.” 

Oliver seems just as confused as she is. “Quentin, what--?”

“I’ve been watching the tapes of your practices, looking for what’s coming together, where we can improve, that kind of thing,” Quentin explains. “But you know what I keep noticing? When you two are skating together, the connection is palpable. When you’re timing your jumps, going into a lift, whatever -- you’re laser-focused on each other.”

Felicity is still not following. “You want us to ignore the crowd -- and the  _ judges _ \-- and just... stare at each other while we skate?” She looks over at Oliver to commiserate about Quentin’s absurd look, but he’s oddly stony-faced and staring at Quentin. 

“Quentin,” Oliver says, with a hint of warning in his tone.

Puzzled, Felicity looks back at their coach, trying to understand the unspoken argument he’s apparently having with her partner. 

Quentin holds up a calming hand. “Oliver,” he says, “I’m talking about what I see on here.” Quentin waggles his phone in front of him. “There’s something that happens when you two skate together, and we need to use it.”

Some of the tension in Oliver’s shoulders eases. “We work well together,” he allows, stealing a quick glance at Felicity before his gaze skips away. “But I’m not sure I’m following.”

“Me, neither,” Felicity interjects. Sure, she and Oliver have rather quickly built up the ability to read each other on the ice -- hand squeezes, non-verbal cues, that kind of thing. But on-ice communication isn’t rare for pairs, it’s  _ required _ . And it’s certainly nothing to build the artistry of a performance on.

“I want that chemistry I see on screen to be the focus,” Quentin says.

“Chemistry?” Felicity asks skeptically. 

But Quentin is animated, now, as he explains his vision. “I want you to build a difficult, high-scoring program, and I want you two to smolder at each other every single second you’re not jumping. I want the crowd in the rink and the television audience unable to take their eyes off of you, not sure what they’ll miss if they look away. I want the world to see what I see.”

Felicity is pretty sure she’s wheezing as she turns wide eyes Oliver’s way. “ _ Smoldering _ ?” she echoes faintly.

There’s color high in his cheeks and he shrugs awkwardly.

“You,” Quentin continues, pointing at Oliver, “won’t get all weird about  _ dancing _ , and you,” he continues, turning to Felicity, “won’t _toothpick_ if your focus is on him.”

“Toothpick?” Oliver wonders.

Felicity ignores the question and considers Quentin’s point. She’s not sure that  _ smoldering _ with earn them any execution points, but nothing else as really worked so far. They’ve got almost twelve weeks until the Grand-Prix, and they’ve got to build a program somehow. “We can try, I guess,” she offers, and it’s not the kind of commitment they need for a program, but it’ll have to be enough for now.

She looks over at Oliver, who nods. “I’m willing to try,” he says, and then his lips quirk just a bit. “And I’m willing to try the throw quad Sal.”

Felicity lifts her chin, feeling like they’re back on less awkward footing now that he’s challenging her to try something athletically difficult. “Me, too,” she agrees. “And also, we need a little more height on the throw twist.”

Oliver straightens, beckoning for her to let him help her up. Like they’re gonna jump right into practicing that here on the mats. Felicity puts her hand in his, and when she’s upright, he tugs her closer, his free hand moving to her hip while hers migrates to his shoulder. They stare at each other for a moment.

Then Oliver leans in, just a bit. “I can definitely get you higher,” he tells her in this low, dangerously throaty voice, and she feels herself blushing. 

“Yeah,” Quentin drawls from behind her, “we’re gonna need to find a sexy song for the two of you.”

Oliver’s hands fall away, and he and Felicity each take a step back, as if they’ve been burned. Felicity’s cheeks are burning and she turns a glare on Quentin. “I’m gonna go do weights,” she announces, and retreats to the far end of the gym. “And then,” she mutters to herself, “I’m gonna  _ kill _ my coach.”

 

& & &

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

**_Ratko to Work with Newly Paired Smoak and Queen_ **

_ To the surprise of many in the skating world, acclaimed choreographer Nyssa Ratko has begun working with the new pair of Felicity Smoak and Oliver Queen. Ratko has an impressive resume of medal-winning programs, and her preference for lyrical, artistic skaters is well known, which is why many in the skating community expressed surprise that she would agree to work with technically proficient, athletic skaters like Smoak and Queen, both of whom have struggled in the past with the artistic side of the sport. _

_ Nyssa Ratko is married to Sara Lance, daughter of Smoak and Queen’s coach, Quentin Lance. _

  
  
  
  


Felicity is breathing hard, her body pressed tightly against Oliver’s, as the music fades. Her gaze shifts from his sweaty technical shirt up to his face, which is so very close to hers. His eyes are laser focused on her, one of his arms banded around her back, the other hand low on her waist, holding her in place, and it occurs to her that they’re in the middle of the practice rink under the bright, harsh lights, with Quentin, their choreographer Nyssa, and a few other skaters watching from the boards.

Right. Frak.

She shifts her weight back, pulling her hands from around his neck to check her ponytail, a jittery kind of  _ awareness _ fluttering in her chest. “Well,” she says, her tone artificially bright, “that was good. Right?”

Oliver’s grip on her loosens, and he glides back a bit. “Yeah.” He clears his throat, his fingers twitching a little at his sides. “Yeah, that was good.”

Felicity has been skeptical of Quentin’s “just skate sexy” concept from the day he suggested it, but she has to admit --  _ reluctantly _ \-- after a week of rehearsing some choreography to the low, pulsing beat of their music, she’s starting to get it.

She already knows that she and Oliver just kind of...  _ click _ on the ice. Their side-by-side jumps and even their lifts are coming together faster and with fewer falls than she’s experienced with any partner so far. Skating with someone on her athletic level is so exciting -- their technical practices are the best part of her week.

But it’s a new feeling to rehearse the pieces of choreo  _ between _ elements and have it feel natural -- usually, choreo is a stiff, orderly parade of commands in her brain:  _ lift arm to 90 degree angle, change edge, lean into spiral sequence, reach for partner’s hand _ . That sense of working through a list of requirements has always come through in what announcers call a lack of musicality in her skating. The only way she’s ever been able to let the music move her is to lose herself among other clubgoers, dancing in the privacy of dark nightclubs -- the harsh lights of a skating rink and the rapt attention of the judges and the audience is the exact opposite.

Somehow, though, skating with Oliver is getting her out of her head a bit, and helping her  _ feel _ the music -- at least a little.

“Let’s make some changes,” Nyssa says, gliding over to them with that preternatural grace of hers. Nyssa began ballet at three and carries herself with the precision of a born dancer. When a knee injury ended her career with the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo, she fell in love with figure skating, and ended up becoming a sought-after choreographer for skaters -- her imaginative combination spins are legendary. These days, Nyssa can pick and choose her skaters, and she tends to work with the powerfully graceful Dinah Drake types of the skating world. But Nyssa agreed to work with Felicity and Oliver -- the dreaded  _ technical skaters  _ \-- as a favor to Quentin, her father-in-law.

And, it doesn’t escape Felicity’s notice, Nyssa working with them is on a trial basis only.

She hopes they’re improving enough to persuade Nyssa to stick around, because she is collaborative instead of prescriptive, watching Oliver and Felicity perform segments of choreography and altering it to better suit them. Only when Nyssa’s satisfied with set pieces will she put together a whole program.

So if Nyssa wants to make some more changes to the segments they’re working on, Felicity will be a good soldier and agree, even if she’d rather be practicing her triple axel. She nods and asks, “What do you want us to do?”

“Quentin is correct,” Nyssa announces, her eyebrow quirked in restrained bemusement, “your skating is better when you are focused on each other instead of the skating.”

Felicity flushes, and very pointedly does not look over at Oliver. Though she can see his movements in her peripheral vision, and just  _ knows _ that he’s doing that nervous hand twitching thing. “Well,” she fumbles, “I’m glad we-- I mean, that’s good? Right?”

Smiling, Nyssa nods. “It is an improvement from the tapes I watched of you both prior to your partnership. This,” she continues, indicating the air between them, “I can work with.”

Felicity very carefully does not look over at Oliver, because her cheeks still feel kind of hot. “Great,” she manages.

Then Nyssa tips her head slightly and says, “Let’s move to the gym and experiment with holds and transitions.”

Frozen, Felicity simply blinks her confusion, but Oliver eases closer and asks, “Experiment?” His voice sounds a little strange. Strained, even. “What do you mean?”

Nyssa shifts, skating slowly backwards towards the boards, clearly expecting them to follow. “We need sexy positions for lifts, and for combination spins, and for transitional elements. I want your bodies close, your eyes on each other, and your hands in unexpected places.”

“Oh,” Felicity breathes, and this time she does look over at Oliver, who cuts a quick glance her way before moving somewhat stiffly to follow Nyssa. He glances back at Felicity, lifting one arched eyebrow, and offers his hand. That jolts her from her strange stasis, and she pushes off, taking a few short, strong strokes to catch up, and takes his hand. 

It’s not an  _ unexpected place _ for their hands to be, but it occurs to her as they reach the boards that there’s no real performance reason for she and Oliver to be holding hands at the moment. 

Uncertainty clings to her like an awkward second skin as she steps off the ice, pausing to put on her fuschia blade guards. She accepts her small bag from Quentin’s -- it’s never far when she’s at the rink or the gym, because it’s got all of her essentials: hand lotion, kleenex, deodorant, cheerful pink-tinted chapstick, a small herd of extra hair elastics, a couple pairs of thick wool socks, an old-yet-beloved pair of purple leg warmers, and a giant reusable bottle of water. 

She busies herself digging out the water bottle and taking a few long swallows as they make their way from the rink and through to the connected private gym. It’s strange how skating with Oliver can be easy and natural, while also leaving her feeling oddly off-balance, and she needs a little time to herself to regain her equilibrium.

When they reach the large, open end of the gym, Felicity plops down on the edge of the mats, tugging the leggings she’d pulled down over her laces up so she can get to untying. She slips off her skates, pausing to wipe down the blades as she flexes and points her toes, the rotates her ankles. 

She switches socks and tugs on her sneakers and moves smoothly into a crouch. She peels off her heavyweight, rink-appropriate technical shirt, leaving her in a racerback tank, and dumps everything back into her small duffel. She stands and kicks her bag over to the bench where Oliver is sitting to tie his own sneakers, earning her an amused look from her partner and a familiar grumble from her coach. 

The gym is too quiet -- it’s mid-morning, and there are only a few other skaters lifting weights on the far side of the large, airy room. The relative silence makes Felicity jumpy, so she turns to Nyssa. “Music?”

Nyssa considers the question for a long moment, and then nods. “Appropriate music might be helpful.”

Felicity moves further onto the mats, which cover a large section of the gym facing a wall of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. She bends in half, hands on her calves, nose to her knees, and begins to stretch. Oliver lets out a strange half groan, and she tilts her head to check on him -- he doesn’t look hurt, but she’s upside down and he’s not, so who can tell, really?

Then he joins her, and they stretch in companionable quiet until Nyssa wrangles the sound system and Beyonce filters into the air.

Felicity grins and pushes herself upright. “Why can’t we skate to  _ this _ ?”

“Because,” Nyssa answers smoothly, “it’s about sex in the back of a limo on the way to an event.”

And the blushing is back. “Right,” Felicity shifts a bit, keeping tabs on Oliver in her peripheral vision as he rolls gracefully to his feet. He’s incredibly strong -- like,  _ ridiculously  _ so -- but he also has a natural athleticism that she envies. Felicity is fire and energy and quickness, while he is raw, easy strength. 

“Closer,” Nyssa orders, drifting back toward the mirrored wall. “Close hold.”

Felicity turns to Oliver with a stiff little smile and offers her hand. He quirks an eyebrow and accepts, then tugs her close, his free hand landing on her hip as she braces herself with her fingertips on his bicep. “Oh,” she breathes when she looks up, because he’s really close.  _ Really _ close. When they’re doing this on the ice, she’s focusing on other things, like maintaining her edges and not skating into the boards and counting down the beats to their next move. 

But right now, they’re not moving. She’s just... staring up at him, and his eyes are really, really blue. “Hi.”

He grins, and it should  _ definitely  _ be illegal to look like that. “Hi,” he answers, his fingers tightening just a bit on her hip. His shirt is just a little bit damp beneath her fingertips, and she wonders whether she should suggest he take it off. 

In the interest of it being significantly warmer in the gym than on the ice. She’s just trying to be a good, thoughtful partner. 

“Um,” she blinks, trying to shake herself out of this weird train of thought. “Uh, what’s next?” she asks, turning to look at Nyssa over her shoulder, startling a bit when she notices that Nyssa’s holding up her phone to record them. “Oh.”

“You’ve both been doing this a long time, so you don’t need me to direct. I just want you to work through some close holds, and some possible spin combo positions yourselves,” Nyssa explains. “See what works for your bodies, what you’re comfortable with. I have ideas, but I want to incorporate positions that work for you both, positions you enjoy.”

Felicity’s brain is still careening down the tracks to Inappropriate-Ville.  _ Positions she enjoys _ ? She definitely has a few of those, and she bets they would work for Oliver, too, but  _ NO _ . She should  _ not _ be thinking about them right now. Because: skating positions.  _ Skating _ .

“Positions,” Oliver echoes, his voice low and grumbly and almost suggestive. “We can do that.”

And, yeah, breathing normally is now a thing she has to put effort into, because, wow, can he  _ not _ ? Felicity straightens and looks  _ right _ at the relatively safe spot between his eyes. “Let’s do this.” Then she sighs, because of  _ course _ that’s how her brain chooses to phrase it.

But Oliver only huffs a laugh and shifts his weight, moving his left foot back and easing her closer. Felicity responds instinctually, leaning into him a bit, lifting her right foot to mirror his lines. If they were on the ice, they’d be on outside edges, leaning into a smooth turn, but they can’t do that here, so he shifts again, straightening up, both feet on the ground, using the hand on her hip to ease her sideways, and she goes with it, twisting at the waist, arching her back into a dip, lifting her free leg even higher, and when he pulls her back upright, their hips close and she instinctually twines her thigh around his.

Which is --  _ a lot _ .

But she doesn’t have time to be embarrassed at the intimacy and implications of their position, because he’s already moving. His hand lands on her raised thigh, sliding underneath and lifting, so she holds his shoulders and lifts her free leg around his waist, leaning so far back into the big hand in the center of her back that her ponytail swishes against the mats. She lets go of him, hands over her head and back arching as he pulls her up. Chest to chest, he straightens and leans back while her free leg stretches toward the mat, and he lets her slide slowly down.

And so it goes. 

These are all moves she’s done before with other partners, though they’ve never felt quite so charged before. She’s never felt like she’s physically incapable of breaking eye contact as they move together.

Felicity has been hoisted and dipped and twirled and manhandled a thousand times, but with Oliver, she feels like she’s met her match. She trusts him instinctively; she  _ knows _ he won’t drop her. And most importantly for their skating prospects, she can  _ read _ him -- a slight change in the way he’s holding her hand and some pressure against her lower back and she’s bending into him, her body arching towards his. 

She  _ should _ be thinking of ballroom dancing, of subtle signals from the leading partner. Along with ballet, Quentin had her take formal dance classes when she was a preteen, but she’s never been one to follow mindlessly along. So she squeezes Oliver’s fingers and shifts, and then  _ he’s _ reading  _ her _ , reacting to the way she moves closer, then away, arms up and around his neck, bending backwards, and he responds with a deep lunge, her weight balanced against his knee. 

They keep going. The music changes, but Felicity barely notices. She all but forgets that Nyssa’s recording them, than anyone else is in the room  _ at all _ . 

It’s exhilarating, though not much of a cardiovascular workout -- it shouldn’t leave them breathing hard and grinning at each other, but it does.

By the end of their session with Nyssa, they’ve come up with several close hold combinations that they’ll try out on the ice tomorrow, and Felicity is very,  _ very _ aware of the feel of Oliver’s hands on her body. Like, it feels like her skin is branded with his palmprints everywhere he’s touched her in the last hour -- and he’s touched her in many places.

Why is she feeling this way? Why is she so obsessed with the feel of his hands on her body, when being lifted and carried and supported by her partner’s hands has been a regular occurrence for years?

She doesn’t know what to make of this feeling she has, this insistent awareness of him, but when they finish a quick debrief with Nyssa and Quentin, she glances up at him and catches a hint of uncertainty on his face. 

He holds her gaze, and he gives her the slightest shrug of a shoulder, and it’s enough to break the strange tension she’s feeling. Because maybe Oliver is feeling a bit out of sorts, too. Maybe this frission of heated awareness is what a good partnership feels like.

As they head for the locker rooms, bidding goodbye to Quentin and Nyssa on the way, Oliver’s fingertips land lightly on the small of her back. “Felicity,” he says, and she’s never heard anyone say her name quite the way he does.

“Yeah?” she asks, glancing up at him.

She can’t quite read the look on his face, and it pulls her to a stop. Oliver’s hand has fallen away from her, and he shifts his weight a bit, eyes on the middle distance over her shoulder. Then he he takes a breath and meets her eyes. “Are you hungry?”   


Felicity grins at him. “After that workout? Definitely.” She’s pretty sure today should be a cheat day. A major cheat day. A Big Belly Burger cheat day.

She reaches for the handle of the women’s locker room door, but pauses when Oliver speaks again, sounding oddly uncertain. “Uh, do you want to grab a late lunch, or maybe an early dinner?”

“Oh.” Felicity blinks, considering his proposal. They have spent very little time together outside of the rink and the gym, and they should probably get to know each other a little better, since high-level competition means lots of traveling, which means lots of time in airports and on airplanes. 

“Yeah, that’s a great idea, actually,” she answers, the words coming faster as he relaxes into a smile. “I mean, we’re going to spending a lot of time together if we’re really gonna do this thing. And,” she clarifies, holding up one finger, “by  _ this thing _ , I obviously mean our partnership. And if we’re going to be partners for real--”

“We are,” Oliver interjects with a decisive nod.

“--then we should definitely be friends, too,” she finishes with a bright smile. 

Oliver presses his lips together, and she wonders if he’s still getting used to the way her mouth runs away with her sometimes. “Right,” he says, his voice oddly flat. “Friends.” He nods once. 

“Great!” Impulsively, Felicity leans up, her hand landing on his bicep for balance, and presses a kiss to his cheek. His stubble feels just the right kind of rough against her lips, and she’s smiling as she pulls back. “I’ll meet you out front in twenty.” 

“Sure,” he answers in the same strange tone, but it hardly registers for Felicity, because she has turned her attention to whether she’ll be able to persuade Oliver to hit Big Belly. He’s  _ so much _ better than she is about what he puts in his body, but if she had to guess, she’d say he’s at least a  _ little _ susceptible to her persuasive tactics. 

So, yes, she thinks as she strips and steps into the shower, she and Oliver will be friends, no matter how very aware she is of him and his attractiveness. They’ll be platonic partners. 

Totally platonic.

Yup.

 

& & &


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy this [AMAZING artwork for this story by Somewhereelse](https://smewhereelse.tumblr.com/post/172082693082/fanart-etc-for-compulsory-figures-by). I've added some to the chapters and am saving the last two sections for later chapters, but it's all lovely! Many thanks! <3

 

 

**_Queen Newly Paired with Partner Smoak?_ **

_ The skating world is alight with speculation on the exact nature of the partnership between perennial hottie Oliver Queen and the bright, buoyant Felicity Smoak. While reps for the two say they remain only good friends and colleagues, word from the rink is that they can barely keep their hands to themselves during practice.  _

_ A well-placed source claims that Smoak and Queen have been a true two-some since the early days of their working partnership, but we leave it up to you, dear reader, to decide for yourself.   _

_ Helpful tip:  Peruse either of their social media accounts, you might believe it, too -- denials be damned. _

  
  
  
  


In her list of Platonic Things To Do with Your Skating Partner -- which, honestly, has only been a topic of concern or her since pairing up with Oliver -- Felicity has never included  _ couples massage _ . 

And yet -- here they are, staring awkwardly at each other.

To be fair, they didn’t  _ mean _ to end up here -- Oliver booked her a post-workout massage after their uncharacteristic number of drops on the ice today (which, yes,  _ ouch _ ) _. _ They’ve been putting in  _ ridiculous _ hours to get ready for the Grand Prix, and she blew the hold herself at  _ least _ once. On their walk out to the parking lot after practice, Oliver had haltingly explained he’d treated her to a massage as an apology, but she’d refused to let him blame himself for their mistakes  _ or _ her bruises and sore muscles. 

Instead, she’d dragged him inside the massage place to demand they do him, too. Then, she’d blushed bright red and attempted to rephrase by making everything worse -- “Wait! No! I don’t want anyone else to  _ do him _ \--  _ anyone _ , I meant  _ anyone _ , not-- So I just -- I definitely didn’t mean any sort of  _ happy ending  _ situation!” --  while the wide-eyed receptionist stared at her. The same receptionist who, apparently, mistook Felicity’s accidentally sexual comments as some kind of confirmation of her and Oliver’s couple-y status.

So, yes, it might be  _ kind of _ Felicity’s fault that they’ve been ceremoniously deposited in a mood-lit room with low music playing and told to strip. Felicity presses her lips firmly together -- there is no way on this google-blessed earth that she’s going to try to address the elephant in the freakishly quiet room now that their two massage therapists stepped out. 

She and Oliver are standing on opposite sides of the two massage tables -- which, incidentally, are  _ way _ too close to each other for her comfort, considering she’ll be lying naked-but-for-a-sheet beside a naked-but-for-a-sheet Oliver in a few minutes.

They stare awkwardly at each other some more. 

“Um,” Felicity begins, eloquently as ever. “I mean, I guess we should...”  She tries, but she just can’t say  _ I guess we should strip _ to her partner. Her impossibly handsome partner that she definitely doesn’t have a crush on. Because that would be unprofessional. 

Oliver’s eyes are a little wide, and he nods jerkily. “I’ll turn around,” he decides, whirling on the spot, and at least she’s not the only one drowning in the awkwardness.

“Okay,” Felicity answers, and then freezes in place, because he doesn’t  _ warn her _ before tugging his shirt over his head. And, yes, she has seen his arms, and even teasing glimpses of his abs. Hell, she’s had her hands all over him for weeks, and her body pressed tightly to his for a significant chunk of that time. But seeing the muscles in his back shift and move as he lifts the shirt up and tosses it aside, it’s...

“Wow,” she breathes.

“What?” Oliver asks, half-turning before, presumably, remembering that she’s  _ supposed _ to be stripping at the moment. He stills, his face in profile, his arms tense at his sides while he waits for a response. “Felicity?”

“Nothing!” she squeaks, spinning away from the arresting sight of his half-naked body. She shrugs out of her hoodie and pulls her soft, long-sleeved t-shirt over her head, leaving her bra in place while she peels off her leggings, getting momentarily stuck by the part where she forgot to take off her shoes first. Finally, she’s standing there in her bra and underwear, and hears the rustling from Oliver’s direction stop. 

“Uh,” Oliver says, his voice low and strained, “I’ll just get under the sheet and then you can... finish.”

_ Do not comment _ , she warns herself fiercely.  _ Do not _ . There’s no way she can make a joke about  _ finishing _ that won’t send him running for the hills. 

“Okay,” Oliver says after the frantic rustling behind her settles into quiet, though he still sounds a little frazzled if she’s being honest. “I’m under the sheet and looking away. I’ll close my eyes, too.”

Felicity tries not to be offended that he’s  _ so determined _ not to catch a glimpse of her, however counterproductive and ridiculous that feeling is. “Thanks,” she says, sounding a little miffed despite her best efforts. She unclasps her bra and shrugs it off, stealing panicky glances at Oliver to make sure he’s not looking. Then she slips her panties down and steps out of them, shoving them into the center of her pile of abandoned clothes before climbing awkwardly onto the massage table and wrestling the sheet into place.

She lets out a relieved sigh, and tries to calm her racing pulse.

“All set,” she tells Oliver, shifting a bit to cross her arms beneath the pillow. She doesn’t really realize she’s got her head turned towards him until he turns his head to face her. And, wow, okay, they’re probably three feet from each other, but there’s something uncomfortably intimate about the fact that they’re laying around naked and staring into each other’s eyes. “Hey,” she whispers.

Oliver’s expression is warm, but somehow cautious when he responds, “Hey.”

There’s a sharp knock at the door, and Oliver twists a little to glance at it. “We’re ready,” he calls out, settling back and meeting her gaze again as the therapists return.

And then the torture begins.

_ Good _ torture, and at least the deep tissue massage  _ mostly _ keeps Felicity’s thoughts off of naked-under-that-sheet Oliver lying so very close to her. And his presence is enough to keep her from groaning aloud -- at least at first.

By the time her therapist is working on her bruised and sore left buttock, she’s got her fingers wrapped tightly around the edges of the table and her face pressed so firmly into the face cradle that she’s surely going to have marks in her skin. Oh, and she’s definitely making noise now. 

Which wouldn’t be unusual, since Felicity talks, like,  _ all _ the time, except that she is not babbling so much as she is, well,  _ moaning _ .

She has something of a handle on it until her massage therapist locates and focuses on the tight knot in her glute muscle. She groans at the painful pleasure, so loudly that her therapist pauses and asks, “Too much pressure?”

“No,” Felicity answers quickly. “It’s ouch, but good ouch. Keep going.” When the therapist resumes, Felicity gives a little gasp. “Harder, please.” 

Somewhere, in the tiny part of her brain not hyper-focused on the work her therapist is doing, she registers a strange, distressed kind of noise from Oliver, but then the stubborn tension in her muscle releases. 

“Yes,” she slurs. “That was  _ so good _ . Oh, wow.” She’s laughing in a breathy, delirious kind of way, because  _ holy frak _ that was nearly orgasmic.

She grins lazily at the floor as her therapist eases off her glutes and works on her hamstrings. The rest of the room recedes a little, and the conversation between Oliver and his therapist mostly glances off of her endorphin-soaked brain.  

“Oliver,” his therapists asks quietly, “is everything okay?”

“Fine,” Oliver answers, in an obvious lie.

“You’re quite tense all of a sudden,” the therapist presses. “Would you like me to stop?”

“No, no, it’s-- I’m fine.”

“Okay, can you turn over and I’ll--”

“No, no, I’m fine here,” Oliver protests. “Just my back today, please.”

Felicity’s therapist rests her palms lightly against the back of her knees. “Will you turn over for me, Felicity?”

“Sure,” she manages, squirming around under the sheet. She glances over at Oliver’s prone form, his face hidden from her by the face cradle. “You okay, Oliver?”

“Yeah,” he says, “Fine.”

She doesn’t quiet believe him, but he’s also not the most forthcoming person in the world, and also, considering how much he’s been lifting  _ her entire bodyweight _ this week, he’s probably got a ton of sore muscles in his arms and back, so she should shut up and let him enjoy his massage. 

Their massages last awhile longer, and by the time they’re done, Felicity feels like the best kind of jello, a little shaky but so much less sore. Also thirsty and kind of starving? But super languid.

She’s so relaxed, in fact, that she only gets a  _ little _ awkward when the therapists leave them alone to get dressed. She shifts, clasping the sheet to her chest with one hand as she sits up and looks over at her partner. Who is  _ still _ on his stomach, face pressed diligently into the face cradle. “Oliver?”

“You go ahead,” Oliver says. “I’m okay waiting.”

So she redresses, her limbs moving more freely, and turns back to him when she’s done. “I can step out while you get dressed,” she offers, slightly preoccupied with fixing her ponytail. “Grab a couple bottles of water for us?”

Finally, Oliver shifts on the table, lifting up onto his elbows and turning his head to look at her. “That would be-- Yeah,” he says, his voice a little deeper and rougher than normal. Their gazes catch, and they do that staring-silently-at-each-other thing that happens kind of a lot off the ice. “Thanks.”

“No, Oliver,” she says, drifting closer to him so she can touch his shoulder, and never breaking eye contact, “thank  _ you _ . This was a really great idea.” His skin is warm beneath her fingers, but she tries not to focus on that.

“Yeah,” he answers, “this was... good.” And if his smile seems a bit forced, Felicity chalks it up to a lingering, naked-under-this-sheet kind of awkwardness. 

She squeezes his shoulder a bit. Carefully. Definitely not in a grope-y kind of way, despite her heightened awareness of his muscles. “You’re not what I expected, Oliver,” she tells him.

His expression shifts from discomfort to confusion. “Is that good?” he wonders.

“Definitely good,” she answers, making herself let go of him. She presses her palms against her leggings. “I know it hasn’t been that long, but you’re the best partner I’ve ever had.”

This time, his smile is genuine. “You’re the best partner I’ve ever had, too,” he tells her, and they grin at each other.

She has the urge to hug him, but -- yeah, naked-under-that-sheet. So. She steps back instead. “I’ll just--” She hooks a thumb over her shoulder, that familiar awkwardness creeping back in-- “go.”

Oliver quirks an eyebrow. “I’ll meet you out there in a few minutes,” he says, and the strange uncertainty she’d noticed before seems to evaporate, and he’s his normal, assured self when he adds, “We can grab food if you’re hungry.”

“I’m always hungry!” Felicity chirps, reaching behind her for the doorknob and slapping the wall instead. She wrinkles her nose at Oliver and turns away, redirecting to the doorknob and slipping out into the hallway. 

So, okay, there was some awkwardness, and a lot of images she’ll definitely never be able to forget of Oliver’s warm skin, but for a couple’s massage, that wasn’t too terrible. It was maybe actually kind of great?

 

END CHAPTER

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My brain is RIDICULOUS -- I had a simple idea for this chapter and then the couple's massage thing happened and none of the rest. *shrug emoji*


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

**_Strong Competitive Debut for Smoak and Queen_ **

_Felicity Smoak and Oliver Queen debuted their new partnership to unexpected success at the Grand Prix last night. Their short program was a stronger artistic effort than either skater has put forth with other partners before, and the improvement was reflected in their marks._

_Smoak and Queen are in second after the short program. The long program begins at 6 p.m. tonight._

  
  
  


It’s not even 10 o’clock at night, and Felicity is feeling no pain.

Okay, that’s not entirely true, because she landed on her ass during the long program, and her skating dress and tights provide _nothing_ but thin lycra and sparkles by way of “padding.” Her entire right hip and part of her ass are a big, bruised mess.

Which obviously requires self-medication in the form of gin gimlets. _Two_ gin gimlets, actually, so she’s not hammered or anything, but she’s at least a little bit past tipsy. She’s happy and giggly ‘cause, hey, they got _fourth_!

Across the small table from her, Oliver leans in and studies her. “You okay?” He is so handsome up close, especially when he’s doing that _focused gazing in concern_ thing that he does kind of a lot. Mostly because she’s occasionally reckless in practice, and every time she lands badly, or falls, he’s immediately there to help her up with this same empathetic kind of look. He doesn’t chastise her -- that’s Quentin’s job -- but he definitely hovers. He definitely _watches_ her carefully.

Not in a stalker-y kind of way, just -- observant. She feels _seen_ in a way that’s kind of exhilarating, but maybe a little scary? Because having all of Oliver’s attention can be overwhelming.

But she can’t focus on that right now, because: “I’m great!”

The edges of Oliver’s lip quirk upward. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah!” Because they _nailed_ their short, and, yes, okay, they each messed up stuff in the long program, and she’s got icy hot patches on her thigh and has to sit with her weight canted a bit to the left, but overall? Great! They’re great! “ _We’re_ great!” she adds, tipping towards him a bit and tapping her finger against his chest. Their small booth is U-shaped, and they’re both at least a little way’s into the curved part, so he’s well within reach. “You’re so hard,” she mutters, her gaze on her brightly painted fingernails as she drags her fingertip along his pec. “Soooo hard,” she singsongs, because she likes the way he gets flustered when she mentions his peak physical fitness.

“Okay,” Oliver answers with one of those little half-laughs of his, and sure enough, the tips of his ears go a little pink. Felicity grins at him, pulling her hand away with some reluctance. Oliver glances down at her fingers, then says, “Maybe we should have some water.” He’s nursing his second whisky, neat, and seems just as calm as always. But Felicity isn’t fooled -- he’d hugged her, _hard_ , when they placed fourth, and when she’d pulled back, she would swear there’d been actual tears in his eyes.

He wouldn’t have put so many hours in with her over the past couple months if he wasn’t as determined as she is to win. Felicity is a highly competitive person -- she wouldn’t be a top tier figure skater if she weren’t -- and she wants gold. Nationals gold, Worlds gold, and Olympics gold. She wants to have a collection of gold medals when she retires, in many, many years. Normally, fourth place would be a disappointment -- another in a string of competitions where she’d failed to win gold.

But for tonight? For this new partnership? She’s happy with their competitive debut.

She straightens up a bit, sighing happily. “Fourth!” She’s been saying that off and on for hours, really since they saw the final results in the holding area. It’s more than she expected for their first competition together (since figure skating judges rather notoriously factor skaters’ reputations into their scores) so she’s the one who insisted they hit the hotel bar for celebratory drinks.

“Fourth,” Oliver agrees with a grin, then signals the cocktail waitress. When she arrives -- promptly, because, hi, have you _seen_ Oliver Queen? -- Oliver orders water and one of those plate-sized soft pretzels. Probably to soak up some of the alcohol.

“Cheat day?” she teases, already looking forward to the salty, carb-tastic deliciousness of the giant pretzel.

When the waitress nods and moves away, Felicity leans into the table a bit and walks her fingers over to where Oliver’s hand lies next to his tumbler of whisky. “I’m really proud of us,” she tells him, placing her hand on top of his. Some of the excitement is settling, and she’s feeling a little emotional. Maybe even a little sappy.

Oliver rotates his hand beneath hers until they’re holding hands. “I am, too,” he agrees, holding her gaze with this insane, ridiculous eyes of his. “Sorry about popping on my triple axel.” They’d placed their side-by-side triple axels late in the program to rack up points, and although Oliver is normally a machine-precise jumper, he’d been slightly off-kilter on take off. Like all skaters, that instability made him open up, slow his rotation, and do fewer rotations. Which meant they only got credit for side-by-side _double_ axels.

Felicity waves off his concern. “I fell on my ass, Oliver,” she points out. Literally pointing at her bruised, sore ass. “That’s way worse than doubling a jump.”

“That was my fault, too,” he tells her with a little frown.

And, sure, Felicity’s a little tipsy, but she’s pretty sure that wouldn’t have made any sense even if she’d been stone cold sober. “Wait. What?”

Oliver shrugs, shifting uncomfortably. “I was off the whole program tonight. All of my jumps were on the edge of failure, I popped the triple axel, and I obviously didn’t get you up high enough for the throw triple Sal.”

Felicity stares at him, her mouth hanging open a bit. “It was my body,” she blurts out. Then wrinkles her nose, because: why, brain? “It’s simple physics, Oliver,” she explains with a dismissive wave of her hand. When he just stares back at her blankly, she elaborates. “My rotational position wasn’t tight enough, and my axis was a couple degrees off.” She frowns, considering. “Actually, my angle in the air probably affected my rotation, because I was trying to correct in mid-air, which I _know_ doesn’t work, but it’s kind of an instinctual thing, you know?”

Oliver shakes his head minutely. “I didn’t get you high enough,” he repeats. “That’s why you didn’t get all the way around.”

“Believe me, you got me high enough,” she retorts with a grimace, shifting a little to relieve her bruised ass. Each time she does, she inches a bit closer to Oliver in the curved booth. “It was my take off,” she tells him. She’d definitely been higher on the throw jump than she can ever get under her own power. Normally, what makes her such a strong jumper is how tightly she can compact herself, and the resulting speed wiith which she rotates -- not so much super _high_ jumps as super _fast_ jumps. But she’d come off of her edge wrong on the throw Salchow, which put her at a slightly wobbly angle, and there’d been no way to correct it. “I couldn’t save it, no matter how high you got me.”

Oliver considers her words. “Still, I’m sorry. Today didn’t go as well as yesterday.”

Felicity brightens. “Oh, _definitely_ ,” she agrees. Because the short program last night had been like magic -- she’d barely noticed the crowd and didn’t get in her own head. Instead, they’d skated with that intense connection, that focus on each other that somehow propels them to skate better than they’ve managed before. “I’ve never felt like that before,” she tells him.

His face softens, his eyes warm and affectionate. “Me, neither.”

“We should do it!” she blurts, then hastily adds, “Again! We should do it again. The skating, I mean. The great skating. Which, obviously we will, right?”

Wide-eyed, Oliver watches her for a moment. “We will... what?”

Felicity can feel her face flushing. “I mean, we’re really doing this, right? You and me -- us -- _this_.” She waves her hand between them, nearly upending his whisky glass in her slight frenzy. “I’ve had partners that I’ve really liked and clicked with before, but I think we’re just _really good_ for each other. Don’t you?”

Oliver nods mutely.

Pausing for a swig of her drink -- which, dammit, is mostly ice melt at this point -- Felicity tries to smooth her jangling nerves. “When we started this, we agreed it would be a-- a _trial_ , a short term kind of thing to see if it works. But we never really talked about it again, even though we’re doing great and made our competitive debut and everything. So I’m just saying I think we should make this thing, you and me, permanent.”

And then, because Felicity has never met a moment she couldn’t make more awkward just by being herself, she sticks her hand out for Oliver to shake.

Which is what finally seems to break his strange stillness. He exhales on a little laugh and takes her hand, shaking it gently. “You’re my partner,” he tells her in a soft, weighty voice that _does things_ to her that it really shouldn’t.

Felicity feels warm and snuggly, and she tugs insistently on his hand, which does absolutely nothing to move the gargantuan man beside her. “Come _here_ ,” she orders, wriggling closer to him and throwing her free arm up around his neck to pull him into an awkward hug.

Even at strange, nearly right angles, even with his rib cage hitting the table and tilting it slightly as they embrace, it’s one of the best hugs Felicity’s ever had. She’s got one arm around his neck, the other beneath his arm with her palm braced against his back, and she lets herself just savor the moment. “Partners,” she mumbles into his chest. His very firm, surprisingly comfortable chest.

Oliver’s big, warm hand smooths up and down her spine, and he turns his face into her hair. “Felicity, do you--?”

“All right,” interjects an annoyingly cheerful voice, “I’ve got a pretzel and a glass of water!” The server's announcement is accompanied by the sound of dishes being deposited onto the tabletop.

“Oh!” Felicity’s grip on Oliver loosens and she turns eager eyes to the table. “Yum!”

Oliver eases back slowly, his hand lingering around her shoulders as she reaches for the water. He thanks the server and then stiffens beside her. “Quentin,” he greets as their coach appears at their table.

Quentin gives the drinks and the pretzel a pointed look. “Evening, kids.”

“Quentin!” Felicity beams at him. “Join us. There’s plenty of pretzel to go around.” Then she reaches for the pretzel and tears off a warm, aromatic chunk. With a moan, she brings it up to her face and inhales. “So good,” she croons, and pops a piece in her mouth.

Quentin and Oliver have a weird little staring contest, before Quentin says, “You sure I wouldn’t be intruding?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Felicity scoffs, scooting a little closer to Oliver so there’s sufficient room for Quentin to sit. She knows they should do a debrief on the long program, and now’s as good a time as any.

She can’t quite understand his seeming reluctance as he slides into the booth with them. “Okay,” he orders, “tell me what you thought of your program.”

 

& & &


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

**_Felicity Smoak Injured?_ **

_Word ‘round the rink is that Felicity Smoak is sidelined with a leg injury. Coach Quentin Lance refused to comment, and no other skaters or coaches witnessed a fall or other incident that could have led to an injury. According to sources, Smoak was spotted at the Starling Skate Club on crutches._

_Smoak and new partner, Oliver Queen, made their competitive debut less than a week ago, surprising many in the skating world with the mesmerizing quality of their programs. Some critics suggested that the new pair is relying too much on sex appeal, but skating fans reacted with enthusiasm to their performances._

_It’s unclear whether Smoak will be ready in time for Nationals in seven weeks._

  
  
  


Injuries suck.

Like, they stuck a stupid amount. Felicity _hates_ forced inactivity.

Over the years, she’s missed skating -- mostly practice but occasionally competitions -- for reasons as mild as the flu, and as potentially devastating as a broken collarbone and separated shoulder. (That partner was... not great at lifts.) She’s had bad bone bruises, a broken wrist, and all manner of muscle strains and tears.

But somehow, she’s never had a scary and wholly debilitating joint injury.

Until now, and her _stupid_ sprained ankle.

The worst part is, it’s not even a skating injury! No, she just walked outside of her apartment the morning after an early season snow storm and bit it on some black ice. Her right foot flew out from under her, and when she tried to catch herself, her left foot came down all wonky and her ankle just... _buckled_. She’d hit the ground with an embarrassing yelp, and stared at her boots as the wave of pain hit.

Nearly thirty-six hours later, her injured ankle is still swollen and purple and throbbingly painful. The orthopod had wrapped it and sent her home with crutches and a diagnosis of a Grade II sprain and strict instructions not to use it for a week.

“Stupid RICE,” she mutters, glaring at the Netflix menu. She’s sitting nearly sideways on her couch, her wrapped ankle propped up on pillows and covered by an ice pack. She’s been resting, icing, compressing, and elevating her _ass_ off for an entire day, and she’s so bored. So. Bored.

“Why?” she asks the framed _Casablanca_ movie poster on her wall, because, yeah, she’s talking to the walls now. It does not reply -- instead, there’s a knock on the door.

Puzzled, Felicity sits up, staring over at the door for a moment. Her pain meds aren’t _that_ good. “Hello?” she yells.

“Felicity?”

“ _Oliver_?” she asks, blinking rapidly. What? Quentin had been by earlier, and Sara is supposed to bring breakfast tomorrow morning, but she and Oliver hadn’t made any plans.

“I brought food,” he answers, speaking loudly through the heavy wooden door of her apartment.

“Oh.” Felicity pouts down at her stupid ankle for a moment, because _yay_ Oliver and food! But _boo_ having to get up and crutch her way to the door to let Oliver and food into the apartment. “Hang on!” she shouts, leaning over to pull her abandoned crutches off the floor.

“Take your time,” Oliver calls back.

“I’m gonna need it,” she mutters, awkwardly pushing herself to her feet and settling herself on the crutches. She’s an athlete with excellent body control and balance in almost all situations, but these stupid crutches? Ugh.

It occurs to her as she painstakingly moves across her apartment that she looks, not to put too fine a point on it, like a total mess. She hasn’t showered today, and hasn’t even bothered changing out of her sleep shorts -- because, stupid ankle. She’s braless under her slouchy old t-shirt from the Vegas rink where she learned to skate, her hair is piled unceremoniously on her head, and her non-injured foot is nearly swallowed up by a bright turquoise fuzzy slipper sock.

Felicity understands that her crush on Oliver is both one-sided and pointless, but she still isn’t much looking forward to him seeing her _quite_ so disheveled. But the only other option is to send him away, and she is. so. bored. So she sacrifices her pride in favor of entertainment.

She makes it to the door and pulls it open a few inches. Then she nearly topples over trying to crutch backwards to let the door open all the way.

“Woah!” Oliver reaches for her, looping an arm around her waist and steadying her up against him, which, yes, makes her breath stutter a little bit. She should be used to all the body contact, but they’re not on the ice or in the gym and he smells great and she just... looks at up him for a long moment. He smiles down at her, eyes all crinkly and intense. “Should I carry you back to the couch?”

She knows he’s just teasing, but it makes her self-conscious and her cheeks heat up -- the last thing she wants is for her pointless crush to make Oliver uncomfortable. Straightening up, she eases back, her gaze skidding away from his. “I’m gonna pee while I’m up. Make yourself at home.” Oliver releases her somewhat reluctantly, and she crutches towards the hall before pausing to look back at him with a frown. “Wait, you haven’t been here before. I should give you a tour--”

“I’m fine, Felicity,” Oliver interrupts. He scans the living room that opens directly into the kitchen. “This is a nice place.”

She tries to see her apartment through his eyes, but can only imagine someone with a wealthy background would be underwhelmed by the brightly painted walls and her cheerful-but-cluttered living space. Felicity can’t shrug very effectively on her crutches, but she tries. “Thanks. And make yourself at home.”

And, yes, it’s possible Felicity spends a bit of time in the bathroom straightening her hair into a more reasonable ponytail, and at least putting some chapstick on so she doesn’t look like death warmed over. By the time she makes her way back to the living room, she’s bursting with curiosity. “What did you bring me?” she asks, maneuvering herself back to the spot on her couch -- her _bright purple_ couch with a serious collection of vividly patterned throw pillows. She drops down with a relieved huff.

“Korean, no legumes,” Oliver answers, from his spot in the striped grey easy chair, which he’s pulled closer so he can unpack the large bag on the coffee table. “Plus some cookies for later, and a vanilla latte from that place you love.”

That warm affection she usually feels for Oliver hits her full force. He’s incorporated her food allergies _and_ her food and caffeine preferences into his day-to-day life in a way that she tries _very_ hard not to read into -- they _do_ eat a lot of meals together just as a consequence of long training days. Still, as she accepts the precious, caffeinated gift, she lets herself appreciate his kindness. “Thank you, Oliver. This is really very sweet.”

He looks uncomfortable, just for a moment, then settles back into his chair. He’s tugged it so close to the couch that their elbows are practically touching. Felicity sips happily at her coffee. “Do you mind if I save my food for a while? You can eat now if you’re hungry.”

“It’ll keep,” Oliver answers. He shifts in his seat, studying her for so long it starts to make her uncomfortable.

“What?” she asks, brushing a hand across her face. “Did I get coffee on myself? Why are you--”

“No, no, you’re fine,” Oliver interrupts. He looks away, looks anywhere but at her, actually, and asks in a quiet, uncertain kind of voice, “Did Quentin ever tell you about my injuries?”

Interest piqued, Felicity squirms a bit to reposition, so her ankle is elevated on the pillow, but she’s turned to see him better. It’s awkward, but she’s always been pretty flexible, so it’s not uncomfortable. “No,” she answers, “I don’t remember anything about injuries.”

Oliver nods once, glancing down at his hands, which he folds in his lap. “I used to play hockey,” he explains quietly. “Loved it. Loved skating, loved the camaraderie, loved the sport itself, I even,” he adds with a rueful grin, “loved the fighting.” He taps his nose once. “This is from my first hockey fight.”

Felicity glances at the slight bump in his nose and grins. “Ouch.”

“Yeah,” Oliver agrees with an easy nod, “it’s a little nuts, but I was a hyperactive kid, and sports were what kept me from my worst instincts.” He pauses, staring down at his hands.

Felicity lets the silence spool out for a bit, not wanting to pressure him. She’s not entirely sure where this story is going, or why he feels compelled to share it with her, but Oliver, is not usually one to share his personal stories. She cradles the latte to her chest, sipping it and surreptitiously watching this man who’s come to mean a surprising amount to her in just a couple of months.

“I know it’s not the same as your ankle,” Oliver continues, “but my third concussion was pretty bad.”

Felicity watches him closely, noting the nervous twitch of his hands, the tension in his mouth. “Oliver, you don’t have to--”

“It’s not a secret or anything,” he interjects, giving her a small but genuine smile. “I don’t mind talking about it.”

Considering the halting quality of his words and the clear tension in his frame, she doesn’t believe him. But she’s always willing to learn more about him, so she nods. “Okay.”

“I broke my leg once,” he explains, with a look towards her compressed/elevated ankle, “and a couple fingers, but nothing that really threatened my ability to play. Even the first couple concussions were pretty easy to get over -- rest and quiet for a few days.”

“You’ve got a remarkably hard head,” Felicity offers with a smirk.

Oliver huffs one of those little almost-laughs of his, and grants her point with a tilt of his head. “We were playing in the regionals, I was seventeen with visions of the NHL in my head.” Oliver shrugs one shoulder. “Anyway, it wasn’t a dirty play, just an accident -- me and a defender going full speed for the puck, and I don’t even know what happened, really -- sticks or skates tangled, probably, but I ended up on the ice and went right into the boards.”

Felicity winces at the vivid picture his words produce in her head. Oliver shifts in his seat, turning a bit more towards her, and Felicity fights the urge to reach for him. This thing between them, this partnership -- it’s so important to her, and she can’t let her crush-like feelings ruin it. So she tries to make sure her expression is supportive and open, and lets him speak when he’s ready.

“I hit,” Oliver continues, “not _quite_ headfirst, because I tried to turn away, but...”

Felicity can’t resist anymore. She pulls her free leg up onto the couch, turning towards the arm of the chair and Oliver beyond it. Then she reaches for him, touching his forearm. Oliver looks up at her with surprise and confusion, but she just tugs a bit on his sleeve until he lifts his hand and tangles his fingers with hers. “That sounds really scary,” she tells him. “I’m sorry you got hurt, and I’m _really_ glad you’re okay.”

Oliver squeezes her fingers gently. “Me, too. Also,” he adds with a hint of a smirk on his lips, “if I hadn’t been forced to quit hockey, we might not be partners.”

Felicity blinks, surprised by how much she rejects the thought of never getting to know him, never skating with him. “Oh.”

Oliver’s smile deepens into one of true amusement. “I’ll take the concussion if it means we’re partnered up.”

Felicity’s brain does a weird kind of buzzing thing as she tries to absorb _that_ loaded statement from Oliver. He can’t possibly _mean_ anything buy it, other than-- “Because teams!” she blurts out. His brow furrows in confusion, and she’s off: “You loved being on a team, and obviously men’s skating is kind of the opposite of _teamwork_ , what with the solo performances and all. So pairs! And you and me. Like a tiny, two-person team.” Felicity takes a breath. “But... that’s not what we were talking about. So. Um. Concussions. They really suck, huh?”

Oliver seems a little baffled by her high-energy, high-word count tangent. He shakes his head the tiniest bit. “They really do,” he says, accepting her redirection of their conversation. “I had headaches for months, couldn’t deal with bright lights, couldn’t even shave for a few weeks.”

Felicity brightens with curiosity. “Is that when all of this--” She motions to her own chin while staring pointedly at his scruff-- “started?”

Oliver’s laugh is a little louder, a little deeper this time. “This was the compromise when I finally shaved off the ridiculously large beard I grew while I was recovering. Thea was _merciless_ teasing me -- she threatened to shave it into a goatee while I was asleep if I didn’t do something.”

Felicity grins. “Your sister is one of my favorite people.”

Grumbling, Oliver rolls his eyes at that. “Anyway. I only told you all of that so that you’ll believe me when I tell you I’ve been here, and I know that it’s frustrating and scary, but you’ll get through it. And I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

She wells up at his unexpected declaration, her throat constricting with emotion. Because somehow he’d seen right through the the fear in her soul -- she’s scared this injury will cost her her career; she’s scared Oliver will leave her and find a new partner; she’s scared she'll be left with nothing but  _might-have-beens_.

She's  _scared_.

Oliver’s thumb moves in soft, soothing motions across the back of her hand, and he just watches her quietly, letting her pull herself back together.

Somehow, Felicity finally finds the words to voice her fears: “Even if I can’t make it back for Nationals?” Because Nationals is _it_ . If they want the Olympics, they _have_ to compete. Sure, USFS technically selects the athletes for the Olympics, but they don’t have a track record to fall back on if they can’t make it to Nationals. And if they don’t make it, it’s four long years until they have another shot, and who _knows_ what will happen in the meantime.

“Felicity.” Oliver scoots his chair _even_ closer, until it’s touching the couch, leaning on the arm so their faces are only a foot apart. “We’re _partners_ , remember? You and me, that’s it.”

“But you could--”

“No,” he interrupts, and there’s something in his tone that suggests he doesn’t even want to hear her _suggest_ he could find another partner. “I’ve never skated like this with anyone else. I can’t do it without you. Win or lose, right?”

It’s what they told each other before the long program at the Grand Prix -- win or lose, they’d leave it all on the ice. She wants to agree with him, but healing in time feels impossible right now. She’s in a lot of pain, and this is her take off foot for several jumps, so loss of strength means loss of altitude, which means fewer rotations -- they can’t _possibly_ compete at the level they want to if she can only manage doubles.

“Felicity,” Oliver says, interrupting her spiraling thoughts, “you’re the hardest working skater I know. You are tough and you are disciplined, and I know you’re going to attack rehab with the same ferocity that I see in the gym every day. Right?”

“Right,” she concedes, begrudgingly feeling a bit better just knowing he holds her in such high esteem, “but rehab is _weeks_ away.”

Oliver smiles at her, one of those rare, full smiles that make the edges of his eyes get all crinkly. “I know. I realize the absolute worst part about this injury for you isn’t going to be the rehab, it’s gonna be _letting it heal_ in the first place.”

“I’m already bored, Oliver,” she tells him, her tone deadly serious. Because if the first 36 hours was any indication, the forced inactivity from this injury is going to _suck_ in the near term.

“I know,” he says, quirking that attractive eyebrow --  _and_ _how are eyebrows attractive??_ \-- at her. “But I’m your partner, so I guess it’s my job to keep you entertained while you heal.”

“Oh, yeah?” she asks, intending for her tone to be light and teasing, but her words come out a little breathy. And, yeah, they’re still very close to each other. Like, closer than she typically is to her friends. They’re almost within kissing range, which is _definitely_ a thing Felicity doesn’t do with her friends. Even if she wants to do it with Oliver, who is her friend.

Oliver’s eyes darken, but he doesn’t move. “Yeah,” he says.

And then they watch each other, that same warm awareness that she feels when they skate together flooding into Felicity’s chest.

Until her phone chirps with a text alert.

Felicity startles upright, nearly upending her half-drunk latte. “Frak!” She pulls her hand from his out of necessity, leaning forward to snag her phone from the table. It’s a text from Quentin, asking if she needs anything. “Quentin,” she explains, focusing on sending a quick reply.

When she sets the phone back down and looks over at Oliver, the strange _awareness_ between them has settled a bit. “Do you want to eat and watch something on Netflix?” she asks, for lack of anything better to say. Then she frowns. “I mean, assuming you can stay for a while.”

Wordlessly, Oliver pushes himself up from the armchair and heads into the kitchen. She watches, bemused, as he locates the cutlery drawer and pulls out silverware, then rips off a couple sheets of paper towel, before heading back to the living room. Except this time, he doesn’t sit in the armchair.

First, he unpacks the food and distributes it, handing her hers and setting his in a little pile on the table.

Then he gently lifts the top pillow of the pile her ankle is resting on, fishes the other pillows from beneath out and pushes them aside, and slides onto the couch, lowering her leg down so the pillow and her ankle are in his lap. Felicity watches him with wide eyes, but he calmly leans over her leg, grabbing his food from the table and settling back.

Finally, he looks over at her and says, “I’m not going anywhere, Felicity.”

“Oh.” It’s all she can manage in response.

Felicity reaches for the remote and reminds herself to breathe.

 

END CHAPTER

  



	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy the beautiful artwork by smewhereelse! For the whole effect, please see [the original post](https://smewhereelse.tumblr.com/post/172082693082/fanart-etc-for-compulsory-figures-by). I am so grateful. :)

 

 

  
  


**_Nationals: Smoak and Queen in Second after Short Program_ **

_ The ankle injury suffered by Felicity Smoak didn’t slow her down in last night’s short program. She and partner Oliver Queen performed a near flawless short program, debuting a few changes to the mesmerizing and sensual choreography and ending up in second place by a mere 1.3 points. _

_ Coach Quentin Lance revealed that they’ve made similar changes to the long program, but denies they’re a result of Smoak’s injury and rehab. Tonight’s long program promises to be a close competition between fan favorites Smoak and Queen and the more established pairs teams. _

  
  
  


By midway through the long program at Nationals, Felicity can  _ feel _ it. 

Not her stupid ankle -- though, yeah, she can  _ kind of _ feel the lingering weakness there.

No, she can  _ feel _ a clean program within her grasp. It’s one of those things she’s learned over the years -- how to recognize when she’s in the zone, when her balance is flawless, when the jumps all feel attainable, when the low, driving beat of their music propels her through the choreography. 

Basically, she’s having one of those dream skates, where her brain is quiet, letting her body do what she has trained it so hard to do without doubts and interruptions.

Even better, every time she and Oliver lock eyes, she can see the same quiet, confident knowledge in him, too. His hands are in all the right places at all the right times, touching, guiding, steering, lifting, and occasionally tossing her into the air. Their bodies are so attuned to each other as they tackle the program element by element, managing clean landings, full rotations, deep edges.

Felicity can’t hear the crowd, doesn’t even notice the judges. She just  _ skates _ , Oliver’s hand in hers for much of it, her eyes on him as they hit the approach to the throw triple Salchow. It’s their last difficult element, and she  _ knows _ they’ve got it. Oliver pulls her in with a hand low on her hip and they rock together through the setup, her back to his chest. She sets her edge and bends her knee, Oliver’s grip tightens and then she’s  _ up _ and spinning, arms pinned to her chest, left leg curled tightly around the right for as long as she can stand it.

She  _ nails _ the landing, back outside edge, perfectly balanced, and she can’t resist a fist pump. She grins when she hears Oliver’s “ _ Yes! _ ” over the music, and then he’s there, sweeping her closer, redirecting her momentum right into a back outside death spiral, her left skate never touching down because she’s  _ that _ locked in right now. 

Her ponytail skims along the ice and she arches  _ juuuuust _ a bit more. She hears the transition in their music, and she shifts in preparation, exuberant happiness bubbling in her chest.

Once Oliver brings her back up, they move together towards center ice, hands smoothing over each other’s bodies as they go. The last, sexy bit of choreography brings them together, her leg wrapped around his thigh, his hands spanning her back, and they hit their closing pose. Oliver holds her in a dip, with his chest draped over her ribcage; she’s got one arm wrapped around his neck and the other flung above her head, her head arched back.

There’s a seemingly endless moment of silence when the music fades, where all Felicity can hear is Oliver’s heavy breathing against her sternum. And then he says, very softly, “Holy shit.”

And, yeah --  _ holy shit,  _ they did it! 

They skated last by luck of the draw, knowing the pair in first place lost  _ just _ enough on execution to leave the door open, and they didn’t get in their own heads about it. Felicity has only been back in skates for four weeks coming back from her injury, and they. still. frakking.  _ nailed it _ !

Euphoria hits and Felicity breaks, laughing as she leverages Oliver’s big frame to stand upright. Except that he doesn’t even loosen his hold on her as he straightens, he just lifts her up in a crushing hug, spinning them in a slow, lazy circle as the crowd applauds. 

“Oliver,” she says, only half aware that she’s speaking in the delirium of the moment. She presses her face against his neck, nuzzling the sweaty skin above the crisp collar of his white dress shirt. “Oliver, we did it. Oh, wow, that was amazing.”

He eases her back down until her skates are on the ice. “Yeah, we did,” he says, those big, warm eyes latched onto hers, an incredible grin on his face. And then, before Felicity understands what’s happening, Oliver leans in and kisses her.

Like,  _ kisses her _ kisses her. 

With intent.

At center ice. 

To, it registers vaguely with one or two of the synapses that are still firing,  _ thunderous _ applause.

She’s so stunned it’s like her body is on a time delay -- by the time she realizes this is really great and, also,  _ she should be kissing him back _ , he’s already straightening and pulling away, eyes wide and a little panicky. “Uh,” Oliver says, the tips of his ears red, “we should--”

“Yes!” Felicity interjects, nodding way too much and releasing her death grip on his biceps. And the rest of the rink -- the screaming crowds, the semi-shocked-looking judges,  _ the TV cameras _ \-- comes back into sharp relief and she can feel her entire body flushing. “Right, yes.” So she takes his hand and steps away, facing the judges and curtseying on autopilot.

She has no recollection of their bows, or of skating off the ice, or of Quentin’s initial assessment of their performance when they reached him. Somehow they made it to the kiss and cry; she and Oliver sit stiffly side by side, with Quentin shooting them occasional murderous looks. No one speaks, because the network cameras are approximately five feet from their faces, and every syllable will be captured and broadcast and  _ holy shit _ , Oliver just kissed her. Like a lot. Like  _ really _ well.

Felicity sits with her knees together, plucking at the slinky red skirt of her skating dress and tells herself to get a grip. She stares blankly at the scoreboard, her mind whirling in baffled excitement and anxiety, heartbeat entirely too erratic to be attributed to exertion.

Quentin hands her her water bottle and says quietly, “Damn good skate, Felicity. I knew you two could do it.”

She nods and takes a few slow sips, trying to calm her breathing.  _ Why _ are their scores taking so long, and also, Oliver kissed her. Holy frak, what is  _ that  _ about? “What is  _ wrong _ with me,” she mutters, because their Olympic hopes are on the line tonight, and they’re moments from learning if they’ll make the trip to Pyeongchang, and she’s obsessing over whether Oliver kissed her because he wants her or because their program is essentially four-and-a-half minutes of stylized foreplay and he was a little too caught up in the moment.

Oliver reaches over and grabs her hand, twining their fingers together and jolting her out of her thoughts. This is how they’ve waited for their scores before, hands clasped in mutual support, and she appreciates the gesture. And what she chooses to read as a sign that he will  _ not _ immediately bolt and never talk to her again after that whole kissing-her-out-of-nowhere thing.

Only it’s not out of nowhere; not really.

Oliver has been incredible since her injury. Emotionally, he got her through the truly frustrating downtime the doctors prescribed in order for her to heal. And he came to every single PT session, and worked out right alongside her the entire way back. He kept her fed and hydrated, and talked her down from more than one freakout about not having enough time to get back to form. He even skated their routine with Nyssa while Felicity was sidelined so that she could stay by the boards and mark the routine just to remind her body -- it was sweet of Oliver to do but also a bit unsettling? Not that Nyssa isn’t happily married to Quentin’s daughter, but watching Oliver drag his hands along another woman’s ribcage was hardly Felicity’s favorite thing.

Because, yes, fine, okay, her crush on Oliver? It’s feelings. It’s a  _ lot _ of  _ very strong _ feelings that have deepened and grown more stubbornly a part of her with every single sweet, supportive thing he’s done these past few months. The idea that he may have feelings, too, that they might actually be more to each other -- it’s simultaneously terrifying and the thing she wants most in the world. 

Other than an Olympic gold medal.

So now what?

She chances a look at Oliver, but he’s focused on the scoreboard, which is  _ definitely _ what she should be focusing on, too. It occurs to her that this thing between them is too sweet and fragile and  _ dangerous _ to pursue -- at least right now. Because he kissed her less than two minutes ago and she keeps forgetting to focus on the scores that might  _ send them to the Olympics _ . She’s wanted Olympic gold since she put on skates as a tiny little girl. She needs to focus on skating.

Oliver’s fingers tighten painfully on hers and he breathes, “Oh.”

Felicity jerks her head around, and despite her excessively good math skills, for a long, paralyzing moment, the numbers on the scoreboard jumble and twist and leave her completely baffled. 

Then the announcer’s voice booms out, “The scores for Felicity Smoak and Oliver Queen are as follows: 136.32. Their total combined score is 205.25. They are in first place.”

Felicity is on her feet a half-second before Oliver, and they crash into each other’s hug attempts, laughing. She actually  _ hops _ up and down in joy for a moment, her arms twining around his torso. Then he half-crushes her with those gigantic arms, and she melts into him. 

The next half hour passes in a blur -- they get their medals, and then face a phalanx of well wishers and reporters. The Olympics aren’t  _ quite _ a lock, not until USFS officially announces the team, but the likelihood of USFS leaving the pair that won Nationals off the team is negligible. So they hold hands and smile and offer bland but excited soundbytes, never letting themselves sound  _ too _ assured of the Olympics spot. 

It’s not until they agree to one last interview with a self-described sports-and-entertainment-but-mostly-entertainment reporter from Starling, Susan Something-or-Other, that they’re asked a question they don’t know how to answer:  “Fans have speculated for months that your partnership extends to an off the ice romance,” Susan says, and Felicity freezes, her gaze shifting to the camera capturing every moment of this. “Can we take that kiss tonight as confirmation?”

Felicity opens her mouth, panic rising in the form of what is sure to be an epic and embarrassing babble, but Oliver saves her. “We’re not going to comment on our personal lives,” he says, squeezing her hand and leaning his shoulder into hers. “Our focus is on our skating, and on getting ready for the Olympics, should we be chosen to represent the country.” 

It’s a good answer, but this Susan person does not seem ready to let it go. “Surely skaters have time for some kind of private life,” she presses. “And it only seems to fair to comment publicly after tonight’s display.”

The undercurrent of judgment in Susan’s tone irks Felicity, and she’s speaking before she thinks it all through. “Our program is a love story,” she says, the words coming fast and furious, “it’s about a first date, and nerves and attraction and that fizzy feeling you get when all you can think about is how much you  _ want  _ someone. The fans have responded to that, and if there’s something in the way that we skate together that sells the love story, well, that just means we’re doing our jobs.” 

Oliver stiffens a bit beside her, but nods. “Yes,” he echoes, “we’re just doing our jobs.” And then he gives this annoying Susan person his best judgmental eyebrow and brings the interview to an end with a terse, “Thanks. Have a good night.”

Felicity follows his lead, giving a brief, incredibly dorky wave to the camera. Oliver ushers her into the skaters only section, which is really just a partitioned off part of the large, cement-lined hallway. 

When Oliver heads straight for the men’s locker room, she slows down, tightening her grip on his hand. “Oliver?”

He sighs, his shoulders rounding a bit as he turns to face her. He pauses when he sees another skater they know a little bit, exchanging quick greetings. Felicity doesn’t miss the curiosity on the other skater’s face, or the way he slows way down, like maybe he wants to overhear a little of what they’re talking about.

Oliver touches Felicity’s elbow, moving them across the hallway from the locker room doors for what passes as privacy in a public building. He stands so close to her she has to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” Oliver tells her in a flat, emotionless tone that tells her he’s lying. “You’re right -- I got carried away with the program, so...” He watches her with a stony expression, but she can’t seem to get her mouth in gear. Oliver nods once, as if her silence has confirmed something for him, and gently slides his hand from hers. “We don’t have to talk about this anymore.”

“Oliver, no!” She grabs his elbow before he can turn away. “Wait, please. I didn’t mean it was your  _ job _ to kiss me, or-- You know my brain thinks of the worst ways to say things!” she points out, hoping he’ll understand what she’s trying to say now.

His mouth is tense and his eyes are blazingly blue, but she’s never seen this look on his face before. “I misread the situation,” he tells her in that same low tone. “I didn’t mean to make things awkward between us, or--”

“It’s not like I didn’t want to kiss you, too!” she interjects. Loudly. Then she cringes, because that  _ definitely _ echoed a little in this stupid hallway. 

Oliver stays very, very still as her words hang in the air between them. 

“Um,” she starts, trying to backtrack. “I-- I mean--”

“Felicity,” he says, in this impossibly soft voice that leaves her defenseless -- how can he convey so much with just her name? “I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you first, but I--” He pauses to take an unsteady breath. Then he meets her gaze and tells her, “I want this.  _ Us _ .”

She’s nodding, even though she doesn’t mean to. “I want this, too--” Oliver is already reaching for her, already starting to smile-- “But I don’t think we should do this right now,” she blurts.

His hands hang in the air for a moment, where he was reaching for her and stopped. Then he lowers them, pressing his palms against his thighs. “Okay.”

“Wait, I just--” Felicity pauses, pressing her lips together while she tries to get her thoughts in order. “This, what we have together on the ice, it’s so important to me. And we’re  _ so close _ to what we’ve both been working towards for years. I just don’t know if we should rock the boat right now.” She shrugs, lifting a hand to reach for him, but letting it fall back to her side because it’s not fair to mix her messages. 

Oliver nods and murmurs a noise of assent, and he looks so wrecked that she  _ can’t _ leave things this way. She has to make him understand why.

“What if we try,” she says, the words barely more than a whisper, “and we screw everything up?  _ Everything _ .”

Oliver looks past her, focusing on something over her shoulder for a long, agonizing moment. Then he gives her a heartbreaking smile, even though she can see the pain in his eyes. “I understand,” he says. “You’re probably right.”

She wants to protest. She wants to throw her arms around him and comfort him, but she knows she can’t. “Oliver, I’m not saying never. I’m just...”  _ Scared _ .

Scared of trying and failing, and burning their Olympic dreams down with everything else. Scared of losing Oliver permanently.

“Just not right now,” Oliver says. 

There’s so much between them, so much attraction and affection and, God, so many possibilities. But Felicity isn’t ready to jump off of this particular cliff. She she swallows hard and agrees. “Just not right now.”

“Okay.” Oliver steps closer, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to her temple. “Okay,” he repeats, his voice low and gravely. Then he turns away, heading for the locker room.

Once he’s out of sight, Felicity swipes a tear from her cheek. “Okay.” 

But she doesn’t feel okay.

 

END CHAPTER

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

**_Olympics Update:  Smoak and Queen Poised for Gold?_ **

_Felicity Smoak and Oliver Queen are having a very good Olympics._

_After streaming portions of the Opening Ceremony on social media, the breakout pair made their Olympics debut with a stellar short program, earning third place in the standings going into tonight’s long program._

_They will skate first in the final group, with a real chance to medal._

 

 

  


When Felicity and Oliver nail their long program at the Olympics, the euphoria feels much like it did at Nationals, except that Oliver doesn’t kiss her.

He hugs her like crazy, crushing her to his massive chest, and when his grip loosens and they lock eyes, she feels like _maybe_ he’s about to kiss her? But he doesn’t. She deflates, just a little, in response.

And because it’s the Olympics, the focus of her efforts and training for years and years and years, Felicity’s feelings about _everything_ are heightened. Because they just skated a nearly flawless program, with no falls or botched landings or under-rotations. _At the Olympics_! She’s frakking elated!

But maybe also crushed, because she’s pretty sure Oliver won’t kiss her again.

Also in a torturous kind of limbo, because even after they get excellent scores at the kiss and cry, they have to... wait. For _five more pairs_ to skate and get scored.

When Felicity steps off the kiss and cry platform, she reaches instinctively for Oliver’s hand. She’s coming down off of her skating high, and her stomach is starting to do nervous little flips -- about the fact that their medal-related fate is now out of their hands, and about the fact that she might have ruined any potential for this _thing_ between she and Oliver becoming more than a professional partnership.

Her thoughts are a jumbled mess, basically, and her emotions are utter chaos.

They reach the solitude of the curtained off skaters-only section, and Felicity realizes abruptly that she’s at a total loss. “What are we supposed to do now?” she mutters, glancing around at the other skaters -- some disappointed because they already know they won’t medal, others caught in the same terrible/awesome wait that she and Oliver are.

She and Oliver are in first at the moment, and they have a pretty good chance of medaling, but nothing’s for sure. Their scores are quite good, but there is, by virtue of their luck-of-the-draw skating order, room for any of the remaining teams to beat them.

So Felicity is excited and anxious and yes, a little disappointed, and _what is she even supposed to do with herself_ for the next twenty or thirty minutes? She turns around in a strange little half-circle, stopped only by Oliver’s hand in hers from spinning like an top. Her gaze skitters around, searching for somewhere to land, something to focus on.

Oliver watches her for a moment, then squeezes her hand and says, “Come here.” He take a little side-step, tugging her gently along.

She frowns. “Oliver, what--?”

He pauses, meeting her gaze. “Do you trust me?” She can’t read the look on his face, but those kind, blue eyes are flooded with warmth and she finds herself nodding.

“Of course,” she answers. It’s the one constant since they’ve met, and it hasn’t changed even after the slight weirdness crept into their relationship after Nationals.

The small smile he gives her is aggressively attractive. “Then c’mon!”

So she does. They’re walking quickly -- as quickly as possible in skates with bladeguards on polished floors, anyway -- in the opposite direction from the locker rooms and the public areas. She glances around warily when he pushes open a plain door with several bright signs in Korean, plus a big, red “AUTHORIZED ENTRY ONLY.” Oliver barely breaks stride, merely nodding to the custodial staff as he directs Felicity towards a set of double doors about twenty yards away.

Those doors aren’t marked but they are cracked open; all Felicity can see through the small space between them is dim, dark grey, perhaps like a large room with very few lights on.

“Oliver?”

He shoots her a grin and pushes the door open, ushering her out onto -- a loading dock.

Baffled, Felicity halts in the doorway and looks around for some reason Oliver’s brought her here.

There’s a truck backed up to the dock to their right, and a large, unfortunately smelly dumpster to their left, and a few sad dim lights above them. Most of the large garage doors are closed, but the two on the left are open to the dark night beyond.

Felicity glances at the dumpster, the line of garbage cans, and the pair of forklifts, and then starts to laugh. Everything smells vaguely of motor oil and trash. “What are we doing here?” she asks.

“We’re focusing on something other than our competitors,” Oliver explains, pulling her along the raised loading dock towards the stairs just past the smelly dumpster. The temperature drops as they move away from the building behind them, and she can feel goosebumps along her skin. She’s wearing just her skating dress and tights, but the cool night air feels kind of good.

She follows Oliver, a skeptical look on her face. “I don’t know, anxiety might be better than nausea,” she points out, covering her mouth and breathing shallowly as they pass the unfortunately fragrant dumpster.

And then they walk through one of the open garage doors and out from under the overhang, and the beautiful night sky of Pyeonchang hangs above them. “Oh,” Felicity says quietly. It’s quieter out here, and calm, and dark, and all of the things the holding area filled with nervous skaters isn’t.

There’s no one radiating anxiety, no bright, sparkly clothing in her peripheral vision, no PA announcer interrupting her thoughts, no harsh fluorescent lights -- just the night sky.

They stand side by side, looking up at the stars, their hands linked. And it helps. Felicity can’t completely forget what’s going on inside the rink behind her, but the pressure and the stress… _lessens_ in this moment. She has space to breathe, and now that they’re out in the fresh air, she takes in big, slow lungfuls, exhaling slowly.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, face lifted to the sky, her gaze shifting from one tiny sparkling star to another -- she’s never been particularly adept at finding constellations, but she’s always loved the subtle sparkle of starlight. “This helps.”

Oliver squeezes her fingers lightly and lets go. “That was the plan,” he says, his tone light and affectionate, and she has no idea how to respond. Her hand drops back to her side, adrift.

Felicity’s mind is still racing a bit, but less about her Olympic nerves and more about this connection that still sizzles between them. To her surprise, it hasn’t really lessened since their kiss and her panicky decision at Nationals; the energy between them has changed some. Oliver has been so, so careful with her off the ice, respectful of her decisions and her boundaries.

On the ice, though, something has shifted. They’re more free with each other; their boundaries have all but disappeared -- their bodies drape closer, and their hands clutch more convincingly. Both Quentin and Nyssa have commented on the improvement in their performances. It’s a little jarring to hit that end pose, bodies intertwined, and then have to back off and let some space build up between them.

Oddly, the on-ice simmering tension and the off-ice distancing hasn’t caused them any real trouble. They’ve spent most of their waking hours together since Nationals, skating and working out and traveling and eating terrible airplane meals and even, on occasion, enjoying excellent restaurant meals. They’ve somehow grown closer, despite the regret she feels and the lingering hurt Oliver tries to hide.

“You’re always very solicitous,” she says. It’s not much -- she doesn’t have the courage, yet, to say the things she needs to say to him.

Oliver sighs so quietly she almost misses it. “I just want you to be happy.”

Felicity stills, turning her head to look up at him, but he keeps his gaze fixed on the night sky. He’s so beautiful it makes her heart ache. “I want you to be happy, too,” she tells him, clutching her hands together so she doesn’t reach for him.

Oliver swallows hard, but doesn’t look at her. “I’m fine, Felicity.” His voice is full of that same stubborn restraint he’s been using since Nationals, and she knows that means he’s masking his feelings.

She worries that means he won’t give her another chance.

She takes a big breath in and lets it out slowly. “I wanted to apologize to you, Oliver.”

That gets his attention, and he half turns, his brow furrows as he studies her. Even in the dark, she can see the curiosity in his eyes. “Apologize? For what?”

They’ve said sorry a hundred times to each other over the months -- for drops, for missed cues, for being late to practice. But this is bigger and scarier and entirely more personal.

And Felicity honestly doesn’t know whether her apology will be accepted -- or will make any difference even if it is.

“For before,” she blurts, because her nerves are back, and all the reasons she told herself were more important or at least more time-sensitive than this connection between them are gone. They’ve skated to the best of their ability and the rest is out of their hands, and at this moment, she feels very strongly that she needs Oliver to understand her reaction at Nationals. “I’m so sorry if I made you think I didn’t want this, or that I was rejecting you, because that wasn’t my intention at all.”

His expression changes from puzzled to stonily blank, like he’s bracing himself for a body blow. Her words tumble along faster in response.

“I-- I mean, I feel like you think I pressed stop, or maybe _reject_ , but I only ever meant to hit pause. Because the things I feel for you are scary,” she admits, “like, _this could be what you’ve been looking for_ kind of scary, and the more I didn’t say anything, the harder it was to find the words to explain. And you know me, I’m hardly ever lacking for words, so that was _definitely_ weird and scary.” A nervous little laugh escapes her, and she makes herself take a breath. “I just mean:  I’m sorry for handling things badly, and for not explaining myself properly, and I really want to kiss you again, but I’ll understand if that ship has sailed.”

She makes herself stop, even pressing her lips together to contain the clarifications and addenda threatening to spill out. Because she’s pretty sure she said the important stuff, and now she just needs Oliver to _respond_.

But he’s still watching her silently. It’s hard to tell in the darkness, but it sure _seems_ like his eyes are shiny. And he’s definitely doing that almost-smiling thing.

Felicity lets herself feel a little bit hopeful, and then--

“Oliver!” Quentin hollers. “Felicity! What the hell are you doing? _Get inside_!”

Oliver huffs a laugh, and she’s pretty sure he mutters, “Of course,” under his breath. “Coming!” he answers, then turns back to Felicity. “It hasn’t sailed,” he tells her, “but let’s talk about this later.”

“Right now!” Quentin yells, and Felicity can tell he’s massively frustrated with them, because the only other time he’s used that tone on them was morning practice after the Tequila Shots Night. “The last pair is on the ice. You’re gonna medal -- you wanna come find out what color?”

Felicity stills, wide eyes fixed on Oliver as Quentin’s shouting reminds her of the _other_ really important thing happening right now. “Oh,” she says, eloquently. And just like that, the nerves are back. The skating nerves. The _Olympics_ nerves. “Frak,” she whispers.

Oliver leans in and presses a kiss to her forehead. “C’mon.”

She follows him, but she’s back to feeling anxious and torn between her personal and professional desires. They _really_ haven’t finished their conversation, and he said the ship -- the Oliver and Felicity Ship -- hasn’t sailed, but she has about eighty-seven follow up questions, only there’s _no time_.

Because _holy frak_ they’re going to win an Olympic medal?

Her hands are numb and she’s breathing a little too fast as she and Oliver move towards Quentin and the loading dock door.

They walk as quickly as they can back into the building, ignoring Quentin’s grumpy expression. “You’re supposed to be on camera,” he tells them. “Thrill of victory, agony of defeat -- that kind of thing."

“We’re gonna medal,” Felicity says, mostly to herself, as they make their way back to the skater’s only area. There’s a fizzy kind of warmth in her chest and she’s pretty sure she’s grinning like an idiot.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Quentin steers them smoothly towards the arena, and the cameras are on them immediately.

Felicity recognizes the music of the French skaters, and checks the scoreboard to see that she and Oliver are currently in second behind the Germans. Her body goes numb as the reality of an Olympic medal starts to set in. She knows they skated their asses off, but _still_ . This has been her dream since she laced on skates. 

Oliver pulls her to his side, his hand rubbing her arm a bit. “Keep breathing,” he reminds her.

It’s hard, waiting through the next few minutes. The French pair finishes, and they seem happy as they head for the kiss and cry. Quentin steps in front of Oliver and Felicity and says, “I’m real proud of you both.”

Felicity’s already almost crying, and she throws her arms around her coach’s shoulders. “Thank you,” she tells him.

And then she hears the announcer reading out the French skaters’ scores, and she turns back to Oliver. All three of them are staring up at the scoreboard, until the placement changes, and --

“We won silver!” Felicity hurls herself at Oliver, and he picks her up and swings her around. She can hear the crowd cheering and even though she’s got her eyes closed, she knows there are a dozen cameras on them right now. So she tells herself to wait, to be patient, to let Oliver determine when or where they’ll pick up the subject of the ship that has not yet sailed.

Even though she wants to sail. Like a lot. Like, _right now_.

But she reins it in, all through the whirlwind of congratulations, and the logistics reminder of the medal ceremony, and their brief skate out to the platform. It’s so bright out at center ice, but she can still see the rinkful of smiling faces, the phones raised to record every second.

Felicity simply holds Oliver’s hand -- _tightly_ \-- and tells herself to take in the moment.

The next ten minutes pass in bright flashes she’ll remember forever. The announcer saying their names. The big step up onto the medal platform. The congratulations from the Olympics officials and the silver medal being placed around her neck. The feel of Oliver’s big body pressed right up against hers -- her own personal wall of support.

Smiling up at a beaming Oliver, Felicity realizes this man has become the most important person in her world, on and off the ice. Her smile fades a bit, her heart pounding in her chest, as she tries to find the words to tell him that.

“Oliver, I--”

The German national anthem begins, and Felicity reluctantly looks away from Oliver, her gaze shifting to the flags hanging from the rafter. She stares at the stars and stripes and feels a swell of pride, of accomplishment, of satisfaction.

As the ceremony draws to a close, she feels an unexpected determination that she and Oliver make it back in four years and listen to _their own_ anthem when they win gold. A quick glance between them tells her that Oliver is thinking the exact same thing.

And then she sees the disappointment he's trying to hide and realizes he thinks she'll want to postpone this thing between them for _four long years_. “Oliver--”

But he steps carefully off the platform before she can explain that she doesn’t want to wait, that she wants this, wants _him_. He turns quickly back to her and reaches up, his big hands landing on her waist. Felicity grabs his shoulders and leans into him, letting him lift her off the medal platform. He turns in a slow circle as he lowers her to the ice, their bodies pressed tightly together even as his regretful gaze fixes on hers.

So when her skates land back on solid ground, Felicity doesn’t loosen her grip on Oliver, and she doesn’t put any reasonable distance between them. No, she keeps her weight pinned to his and lets her palms drag slightly down to his biceps, grinning a little when she feels his fingers flex against her waist.

When Oliver’s expression softens, that’s all the encouragement she needs.

Pushing up onto her toepicks, Felicity kisses Oliver, right there behind the medal stand, in front of the entire rink and probably the global audience watching online and on TV.

Oliver makes the most delicious little noise of surprise, then his arms wind tight around her back, hauling her closer.

This time, she’s not startled.

This time, she doesn’t almost miss the entire thing.

And this time, she’s never taking it back.

They kiss forever -- or at least until the wild cheering of the crowd registers.

Felicity drops back to her blades, her cheeks flushed with arousal and embarrassment. “Oh,” she says, lessening her grip on his biceps.

She’s a bit smug that Oliver looks bemused and a bit dazed as he grins lazily down at her, a smudge of her lipstick on his bottom lip. “Yeah,” he says back, his voice low and gravely.

Felicity tears her glance away from him and sneaks a glance around, finding that their fellow skaters have already left the ice, and the rink workers are smirking and clapping as they wait to remove the medal platform.

“Oh!” Felicity breaks free of Oliver’s arms, but reaches automatically for his hand the way she has a thousand times before.

Hand in hand, they skate towards the boards, accompanied by the hoots and hollers of the crowd.

Just before they reach the boards, Felicity slows and leans up towards Oliver. “Are those rumors about bowls full of condoms in athlete’s village true?” she asks him.

Oliver chokes, halting abruptly as he stares at her.

Felicity turns, skating backwards as she grins at him. “Well?” she chides him. “Don’t you want to come find out?”

Momentary shock overcome, Oliver accelerates towards her, leaning in and swooping her off her feet, carrying her the last little distance to the boards and depositing her on the ground. “Hell, yes,” he tells her, and if his hand slips a little lower than normal, past the point where he lifts her by the small of her back and landing on the swell of her ass, well, she's sure not complaining.

It takes them quite a while to make it out of the rink -- long interviews and short showers and accepting congratulations takes time -- but later that night, Felicity leaves holding her Olympic medal in one hand and her boyfriend’s hand in the other.

Pretty good Olympics haul, if she does say so herself.

 

END


End file.
